The crisp, white snow crunched beneath her boots as she tentatively approached the scene, Newbury beside her.
The man lay abandoned on Curzon Street, isolated and alone. He had suffered the most horrific of deaths: his stomach burst open by a legion of tiny mechanical spiders, hatched in his gut. The glittering creatures still scuttled about in the ruins of his innards. Beneath him, the blood was a crimson shadow upon the blank canvas of the snow.
“How did they get inside of him?” asked Veronica, disgusted.
“I have no idea,” said Newbury, quietly. “But I intend to find out.”
It was five days before Christmas, and Veronica was once again in the morgue.
“The fourth victim in as many days,” said Bainbridge, frowning, as if he expected Newbury to simply pluck the solution from thin air.
“Each killed from within by these tiny brass beasts,” said
Newbury, turning over one of the gleaming spiders in his palm.
“And all worked for the same firm of solicitors,” said Veronica, trying not to look at the corpse. Its face was livid purple and fixed in an anguished scream.
“Yes,” said Newbury, thoughtfully. “And all had theatre ticket stubs in their pockets.”
“Could someone be targeting your employees?”
Tarquin Grundy shrugged. “Perhaps. We handle all manner of cases, Sir Maurice: criminal, domestic, corporate. We’re regularly on the wrong end of threatening remarks.”
“Anything specific?”
“A rival firm, Jones & Jones. They have a habit of getting a little too close to the criminals they represent. I’d wager they’re not above a spot of espionage.”
“We’ll look into it,” said Newbury. “What else?”
“There was a recent matter,” continued the solicitor, “involving a newspaper publisher, Julian Petrie. We acted for the prosecution. He threatened our man as he was sent down; with death.”
On Bedford Square, close to the solicitor’s office, a street vendor in a top hat was selling bowls of hot, spiced punch to passers-by. His solicitations echoed off the nearby buildings. People swarmed.
Veronica waited in the queue, smiling. She exchanged coppers for steaming bowls.
Together, the three investigators sipped at their drinks beneath the boughs of a snow-covered oak, staving off the brisk chill.
“I’ll look into this Petrie fellow,” said Bainbridge.
“While we pay a visit to Jones & Jones,” said Newbury.
“And don’t forget,” said Veronica, grinning. “Someone has to arrange a visit to the theatre...”
The offices of Jones & Jones were unsavoury, dilapidated, but with a veneer of elegance that suggested the firm had recently lavished money upon them. The solicitors themselves, however, were unable to maintain this implied respectability; shabby and coarse, the two men ogled her and cursed Grundy for his accusations. Newbury drew the interview to a close within minutes, taking her arm and leading her out into the street.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?” asked Newbury.
“Getting me out of there.”
He looked perplexed. “Well, it’s clear they didn’t do it.”
“Why?”
“They lack the subtlety,” he said, grinning.
Petrie, it transpired, had not fared well in prison, and had been found swinging from his belt in a cell two days earlier.
“A dead end,” said Bainbridge, sighing. “Literally.”
“Not necessarily,” said Newbury. “He might have had friends.”
“Not many,” replied Bainbridge. “He was sent down for blackmail. He’d alienated most of his acquaintances.”
“What of his newspaper?” asked Veronica.
“The Mayfair Chronicle,” said Bainbridge. “That’s next. Perhaps there might be some residual loyalty amongst his former colleagues.”
“Enough to start a murderous spree in revenge?” said Newbury, doubtful.
“I’ve known people commit murder for less,” replied Bainbridge, darkly.
Newbury escorted her to the theatre, where they witnessed a seasonal spectacular replete with moaning spectres, murderous shenanigans and clockwork splendour; entire set pieces that came alive before her eyes—a revolving stage, a mechanical hound, a sword-fighting brass idol with six limbs.
Backstage, they found the engineer responsible for such marvels, hunched in his dimly lit workshop. He claimed to know nothing of the solicitors who had visited the theatre and then died, nor of the spiders which had killed them.
“Is it him?” she asked afterwards, unsure.
“It could be,” said Newbury. “But what is his motive? And how?”
“My investigations at the Mayfair Chronicle turned up little,” said Bainbridge. “Petrie was universally reviled, tolerated only because he paid the salary bill. I could find no motive for revenge. Indeed, many of the men working there argued Grundy had done them a great favour.”
“Likewise, I fear Jones & Jones is a dead end,” replied Newbury. “They lack the means and initiative, and I do not believe they represent a viable professional threat to Grundy’s business.”
“The engineer at the theatre?” said Veronica.
“We cannot prove a connection,” said Newbury, “or a motive. I fear I’m at a complete loss.”
Ever since she’d been a little girl, Veronica had adored Christmas; the scent of roasting chestnuts, the crisp winter air, plentiful gifts wrapped in gaudy paper. As a child she’d strived to bring the season to life for her sister, Amelia, who was often bedridden with her illness.
This year she had the opportunity to do so again, to recapture the magic of their youth and spend the day in secretive solitude in Malbury Cross. She only hoped the unsolved deaths would not intervene; she feared it might be Amelia’s last Christmas, and she wished to be at her side.
They held a conference at Chelsea, taking tea before the fire.
“Well, I’m damned if I have any notion of what’s going on,” said Bainbridge, morosely.
“And we’ve another two people dead,” said Veronica. “We’re no closer to discovering how those machines got inside of them.” She took a sip from her teacup.
“That’s it!” said Newbury, laughing, jumping to his feet. He had that wild look in his eye that Veronica knew so well. He’d been struck by inspiration.
“What is?” she said.
“I’m in the mood for a bowl of hot punch,” he said, heading for the door.
The street vendor knew it was over as soon as he saw Newbury stalking through the snow. He abandoned his stall and fled; Newbury gave chase, wrestled him to the ground, bloodying his nose in the process.
He struggled desperately, but when he saw Bainbridge standing by with his cane, and Veronica wielding her hatpin, he relented. “I’ll talk,” he said, sobbing. “I’ll tell you everything.”
Newbury hauled him to his feet. “Most satisfactory,” he said. “We can converse on the way to the Yard.”
“I want a solicitor.”
“I think it’s a bit late for that,” said Bainbridge, wryly.
“So you’re saying he was spiking their drinks with those tiny machines?” said Bainbridge.
“Indeed,” replied Newbury. “They were barely noticeable amongst the fruit and spices in his punch. He reserved the poisoned bowls for the colleagues of his patron, Grundy. They’d discovered Grundy had been falsifying evidence to aid convictions.”
“And once inside, the little machines would activate and burrow their way out?” asked Veronica.
“Precisely. Hours later, they’d kill the victim. Grundy procured the machines from the engineer at the theatre.”
“Remarkable,” sighed Bainbridge.
The clock chimed.
“It’s nearly Christmas!” said Veronica.
Newbury grinned. “Right! Who’s for punch?”